


idée fixe

by mnabokov



Series: Symphonie Fantastique [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the course of the next few weeks, everything in Hogwarts blurs to a few simple points: getting the memory from Slughorn, finding out what Malfoy’s doing and fucking Malfoy. However, Harry’s not sure when the last two points have merged into one sloppy mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	idée fixe

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'ed. All mistakes are my own.

On the first day back at Hogwarts, rain whispers outside the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory and wind curls at the window. A chill seeps into the dormitory as Harry lies in his bed, his ankles tangled in his sheets. 

Night envelops the castle, surrounding Harry with the familiar sounds of Ron snoring and Dean muttering in his sleep. A house-elf has warmed his sheets; it feels glorious to lie in the warmth and listen to the rain.

If he so much as breathes too hard though, Harry can feel flakes of dried blood fluttering in his nose, left from his encounter with Draco Malfoy on the train a few hours ago. When he thinks of Malfoy, something churns in Harry’s gut, slow and angry.

Suddenly, Harry feels very tired. 

To his left, Ron snorts, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like, “Viktor Krum.”

Harry puts aside all thoughts of Malfoy and lets the rain usher him to sleep.

 

-

 

“Twenty inches? That woman is mad,” exclaims Ron, his mouth half full of toast. “It’s our first week back!”

“It wouldn’t be a challenge if you were taking notes,” Hermione says sharply. Harry half-listens to the conversation while dabbing his toast into the puddle of jelly on his plate. “Professor McGonagall was being extremely fair, in my opinion.”

The toast tastes bland. Harry swallows it down anyway, ignoring Hermione’s content hum of approval.

Around them, the Great Hall is as golden and warm as ever. Breakfast is served with baked beans and hash browns and tomatoes and pumpkin juice. But when Harry reaches for his tea, the leafy fronds at the bottom of his cup remind him sharply of Sirius, and Harry puts down his cup again, no longer thirsty.

As they walk to class after breakfast, Ron and Hermione bicker amicably, a comfortable thrum of conversation at Harry’s side. The autumn air is surprisingly sultry and heavy, thick in his lungs and chest. Harry walks without really thinking about much.

“Alright there, Harry?” Ron interrupts Hermione. The bushy-haired witch peers at Harry, as if suddenly realizing he were still there.

“Fine, just a bit tired.” The response is automatic and Ron grins, a lopsided smile that tugs at Harry’s gut. Ron turns back to Hermione and the two resume their banter.

Hogwarts has remained unchanged in his time away from it, Harry realizes. Briefly, he wonders if he’s the one that’s changed.

They've just passed the Trophy Room when Harry sees the familiar figures of Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson ahead, walking toward them. 

Ron and Hermione remain in their pseudo-argument, and Harry feels the first curls of anger unfurl. 

Malfoy is turned toward Pansy, mouth curled into a half of a sneer. His hair is no longer slicked back; instead, it falls around his face, free of product.

"Look at this," Harry hears Malfoy say to Parkinson, "Our savior has come to grace us with his presence as he heads to Charms class." The hot anger in Harry’s chest burns. The unbidden memory of musty train carpet and blood welling in his nose floats through Harry’s mind.

Harry’s strides lengthen, leaving Hermione and Ron oblivious behind him. Malfoy is closer, barely two arms’ lengths away, and Harry says, “You’re pathetic, Malfoy, truly -- ”

“Say it again,” Malfoy taunts, shoving his shoulder heavily into Harry as they pass each other. 

“Pathetic,” Harry says, “Just like your father -- ”

As soon as the words leave Harry’s mouth, something inside Malfoy snaps: Malfoy gets a fist tangled in the front of Harry’s robes and yanks them together. This close, Harry can make out the dark shadows underneath Malfoy’s eyes. “Don’t you ever compare me to -- ”

Malfoy never gets to finish his sentence because Harry slams the heel of his palm into Malfoy's chest, blood rushing to his ears. 

There's a loud rush-come-roar racing through his veins; he feels a grim sense of satisfaction at Malfoy's sharp gasp and he vaguely hears Hermione hiss, "Harry, let him go." 

And Harry feels Ron tugging at his arm, "S'not worth it mate," but they all sound blurry, as if they're underwater. The only thing that's clear is Malfoy's hot breath billowing onto his neck, his heated snarl of "You'll regret this Potter," before Ron manages to tug Harry off of Malfoy, the both of them still glaring daggers at each other.

Harry shrugs off Ron’s grip and barely sees Pansy, standing off to the side, eyebrows furrowed. Wordlessly Malfoy pushes past them, robes fluttering around his ankles. 

Even as Harry turns around, fists clenched and body humming with rage, he can't get the image of Malfoy's lips pressed into a firm line out of his mind, the current of adrenaline out of his veins.

"Honestly Harry, it's just Malfoy -- ” Hermione begins as the trio makes their way down the corridor, past where Malfoy had stridden off, Pansy scuttering behind him. 

Harry nods, pretends to listen, but clamps down on his molars, screwing his jaws together like a vice, not trusting himself to speak.   
  


-  
  


Dewy smoke pours out from cauldrons. Professor Slughorn lectures on the properties of Alihotsy Draught, his voice a monotonous drone. 

The Potions classroom is stuffy and rather humid; most of the students prop their chins on their palms, eyes glazed over. 

In the back of the class, Harry sits next to Hermione, hearing the telltale scratches of her taking notes. Sweat pools in the dip of this throat, the black fabric of his robes constricting in the fumes. Ron sits in front of them, next to Seamus, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. The seat next to Blaise Zabini is suspiciously empty.

"I'm telling you," Harry hisses under his breath, lungs heavy and knuckles white, "he's got to be a Death Eater." 

The scratching stops. 

“Harry, you can't seriously be accusing Malfoy of being a Death Eater; you haven't seen his mark, you can't just assume anything,” Hermione says, hair piled into a bun, cheeks pink.

“’Mione, after the incident with the necklace -- ”

“Professor McGonagall explicitly said she was with him, Harry.” The corner of Hermione's mouth twists. Harry feels a twinge of annoyance as he watches Hermione pick up her quill again, twirl it once in her fingers before continuing to take notes. 

At the front of the classroom, Slughorn dices a handful of beans neatly. His lips are moving but Harry can’t seem to hear what he says. Instead, Harry’s thoughts drift toward Malfoy once again. He idly eyes the freckles on the back of Ron's neck, connecting them like that old Muggle game, connect the dots. 

“Dean’s got a new set of chess pieces Harry, want to play with him and Seamus?” Ron bumps into Harry good-naturedly, as the trio head out of the dungeons after class.

“Maybe another time,” Harry promises.

“You’ve got a meeting with Dumbledore then?”

Harry nods, stuffs the Half-Blood Prince’s book further into his book bag.

“I’m off. Don’t wait up for me.”

The corridors are quiet as Harry makes his way to the Headmaster’s office; most everyone is headed back to the dorms after a full day of classes.

He makes his way to Dumbledore’s office, stopping when he sees the door is hanging slightly ajar. There is shuffling, and the sounds of chairs scraping wood floor and Harry quickly jumps back from the door.

Quiet footfalls grow louder and none other than Draco Malfoy comes from the office, barely sparing a glance at Harry before pushing past him.

Harry glares at Malfoy’s retreating backside before calling, “Sir?” inquiringly to Dumbledore.

“Enter, Harry.”

Dumbledore’s hand is ashy and black, sharply juxtaposed to the pale fleshy color of his skin. They briefly discuss Katie Bell.

"Professor," says Harry, after a short pause, "did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?"

"She told me of your suspicions, yes," Dumbledore says, and Harry’s eyes are unable to meet the professor’s. Instead they are drawn to a square glass perched on his desk. Inside the glass, a storm builds within the glass walls, presumably a reflection of the weather outside.

"And do you -- ?"

"I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie's accident," says Dumbledore. "But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson."  
  


-  
  


The clamor of students eating dinner at the Great Hall seems overwhelming more than anything now, a great onslaught of chattering and the clinking of utensils. 

Harry sits in between Ron and Ginny. Hermione is across from them, piling sour cream into her jacket potato. Ron stirs gravy into his mash, and eats it contentedly, while Ginny sips her stew. Harry drags his fork through his shepherd's pie, eyes wandering across the Great Hall.

“Harry,” comes a voice from his left, “You've hardly taken a bite," Ginny says, her gaze soft and curious. 

“Not really hungry,” he says. He offers her a smile that feels forced, and goes back to picking at his food. 

Ginny's voice sounds slightly strained when she turns to Hermione to inquire about the next Hogsmeade trip. Harry tries not to imagine her lips contorted into a frown as he pushes carrots to one side of his plate and peas to the other. 

“I'm excited,” Ginny says around her spoonful of stew, "First Hogsmeade trip of the year you know.” Harry tries to ignore those implications.

To Ron, Harry mutters, "Not feeling well," and pushes himself away from the table. He heads out of the dining hall, leaving the gap in conversation behind him. 

He's well into the corridor when Harry hears footfalls: Hermione trails after him, fingers reaching out to tangle themselves in Harry's sleeve.

"Harry," she starts. 

“Not now,” he brushes her off, avoiding the fallen look on her face.

“If this is about Ginny -- “

“It’s not,” Harry says hotly and Hermione hesitates, the lie waiting heavy between them. 

"Fine," she acquiesces, "But at least get breakfast tomorrow.” It's easy to nod, reassure her, yes, of course he'll eat tomorrow morning, watch her as she spins around and heads back to the Great Hall. He looks down at his sleeve to see grease marks from her fingers.

As he walks, Harry ducks into a shaded alcove, pulls out his Invisibility Cloak and Marauder’s Map before coming back out. 

Hogwarts’ stone corridors feel cold under Harry’s feet, and his bones feel heavier as he walks through his school, right hand clutching his Invisibility Cloak. In his left hand, he holds the Marauder’s Map, eyes fixed on the footprints that read Draco Malfoy.

Candlelight paints the corridor walls, burning slow and liquid. The ambiance of candlelight is something that Harry normally associates with the warmth of the library or the familiar tug of his eyelids when he stays up late to finish an essay, but today all he can feel is the hot anger boiling under his skin, quick and sharp, rushing through his veins. Lately, Hogwarts has been monochromatic and Malfoy is the only thing that’ll elicit any color out of Harry. 

He turns around the corner to the seventh floor, shrugging off his cloak and stuffing it into the folds of his robes. Ahead of him, Harry can see the bony figure of Malfoy, hissing something to his companion.

“I told you, I don’t need any help!”

“Fancy seeing you here Malfoy,” Harry says loudly as the pair draws closer. His eyes flicker over Malfoy’s companion. “Zabini,” he acknowledges.

Zabini sweeps past Harry in a blur of black and green, barely glancing at him.

“Get out of here Potter,” Malfoy sneers.

“I’m just passing through. Is there a problem?” Harry says and choler fumes under his skin, roaring in his ears.

“There was a problem when your skinny arse decided it was alright to talk to me,” Malfoy responds nastily. He steps closer, into Harry’s face. “Now you fuck off Potter, and leave me alone.”

“I know you’re up to something,” Harry says.

“I said, fuck off, Potter.” Malfoy shoves Harry with both hands and Harry stumbles backwards. Harry’s breathing is ragged.

“Don’t you touch me -- ”

“Fuck  _ off,  _ Potter!”

Harry reaches out to yank Malfoy by the collar the same time Malfoy surges forward again; Harry’s back collides with the marble wall as Malfoy shoves him against it. 

“I know,” Harry grunts as he tries to wrestle Malfoy off of him, “I know you’re up to something.”

“And I know you're an insufferable git,” Malfoy snaps, whipping his wand out with one hand, pinning Harry down with the other. Malfoy presses the tip of his wand to Harry's jugular vein and Harry feels his blood pulsing beneath it, feels his skin throbbing. The corridor is cold underneath his robes, and Malfoy's got him at an angle where his hip bones grind uncomfortably into the stone. 

“I'll say it one more time. Leave me alone Potter,” is the last thing Malfoy says, before all the weight pressing down on Harry vanishes, leaving him alone with nothing but the candlelight flickering on the wall.   
  


-  
  


Icy rain falls silently outside the castle, dripping cold against glass windows. Harry sits in an empty corridor, his legs tucked into an alcove by a window. 

The stone walls of Hogwarts are not cold; they’ve been baking in the sun for the better part of a month. But the windows are nearly freezing from the abrupt rain, and Harry presses his cheek against it, reveling in the cool. It is a morning of cold rain in a month of hot days. 

Luna sits beside him, humming under her breath and flipping through a garish magazine.

“You’ve got a lot on your mind today, Harry,” Luna says in that way of hers. Harry glances at her to see locks of thin hair spilling around her spectrespecs.

“I suppose.” 

“It’s not good to keep unwanted thoughts for too long,” she says almost dreamily, never once looking up from her magazine.

The drizzle of rain outside is gentle but unrelenting, and Harry wonders if they’ll still go to Hogsmeade this weekend.

“I just want everything to -- to go back to normal, I guess,” Harry admits slowly. He wonders if he’s changed after the summer, or if he’s always been like this.

“Were things ever really normal?” Luna sighs, and turns her magazine sideways.

Her words echo long after she leaves. Harry sits in the alcove for much longer, head pressed against the glass and ears full of the sound of rain.  
  


-

 

There’s nothing but the sound of Harry’s own footsteps, bouncing off the corridor walls and echoing back, mocking him as he walks down the seventh floor. He’d followed Malfoy’s footsteps on the Marauder’s Map to here, and here is where Harry paces, turning around the corner to the Room of Requirement. It’s well past curfew, but Harry finds himself here nonetheless. 

Before him stands Malfoy, just slipping out of the room. When he sees Harry, he halts abruptly. His eyes narrow in suspicion. “If I didn’t know any better Potter, I’d say you were following me,” Malfoy drawls. 

“Good thing you know better,” Harry says quietly. He hears his blood rushing in his head.   

Malfoy chokes out what seems to be a laugh as he walks closer. “Leave me alone Potter.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, I -- ” 

“No?” Malfoy sneers, cutting Harry off. “Why don’t you go back -- ”

Harry pulls his wand out of his sleeve in a flash. There’s a loud bang as Harry mutters a Stinging Hex. Malfoy ducks quickly. “Don’t finish that sentence if you know what’s good for you,” Harry snaps, and instead of replying, Malfoy lunges forward, his wand out, aiming at Harry’s neck.

In response, Harry swings his fist into Malfoy’s gut, feeling his knuckles collide with the flat of Malfoy’s stomach. Malfoy unexpectedly latches onto Harry’s wrists, fingers grinding tight around the fine bones there.

Malfoy digs his elbows into Harry’s ribs as Harry attempts to struggle his way out of Malfoy’s grasp. 

“Fuck you,” Malfoy breathes into Harry’s neck and red hot anger courses through Harry’s blood; they’re halfway down the corridor and Malfoy pushes him up against the door of a broom cupboard. Harry’s panting and twisting and wrestling, his blood pumping loudly in his ears so he can barely hear the low meow of a cat around.

Evidently Malfoy hears it too, hands freezing before he shoves Harry out of the way, yanking open the broom cupboard to push both of them inside. Harry barely manages to squeeze in; he yanks the door shut and casts a whispered Muffliato.

“What is it, my sweet,” Filch opines from a distance, and Mrs. Norris meows in reply. Harry strains his ears, presses them against the hard wood of the door to try and hear more of their conversation when he feels a knee to his thigh, a sharp and quick jab.

“Ow!” Harry hisses, and elbows Malfoy in retaliation. Their legs are tangled in the tight space of the cupboard and Harry doesn’t miss it when Malfoy mutters, “Tosser.”

“Shut up,” Harry says lowly. He feels five pinpricks of pain in his skin, in the soft crook of his arm, from where Malfoy has snuck a hand into the spill of Harry’s sleeve, pressing his nails there. 

Even in the dull light leaking from the cracks in the cupboard door, Harry sees the horrible, horrible twist of Malfoy’s sneer. The sight of it sends something crawling down his spine. 

Malfoy curves his hand further into the flesh of Harry’s arm. Harry grits his teeth, blood boiling and heart hammering, grabs two fistfuls of Malfoy’s blond hair and  _ yanks _ , as hard as he can.

Malfoy howls and twists. Their arms catch: Malfoy’s chin jabs into Harry’s chest and Harry’s fingers dig into Malfoy’s scalp. “Shut  _ up, _ ” Harry repeats, but releases his grip on Malfoy’s hair. He winces as Malfoy withdraws his nails in a silent impasse.

“You have fucking claws for nails,” Harry grumbles, then, bends a little to the right to try and press his ear back onto the wooden door, listening for Filch, and rubs up against Malfoy’s leg in the process.

A sharp exhale is pushed out from his chest when Malfoy’s knuckle meets the supple flesh right above his hipbone. “I understand you’re listening for Filch,” sneers Malfoy, “But you don’t have to molest me in the process.”

“Not my fault you’re enjoying it,” Harry retorts. When his ear hits the door, he’s greeted with an incessant meowing from outside. 

Malfoy jabs Harry again and Harry swings an arm in reprisal, body twisting and his hips meeting with the solid heat of Malfoy’s thigh. Suddenly, he’s hyperaware of his proximity to Malfoy, of the heat rolling off of Malfoy’s body in waves. Harry can feel his face flushed from the physical exertion, and his chest heaves as he tries to even his breaths.

“All riled up from me shoving you into a broom closet, Potter? That explains the last five years well enough,” Malfoy snipes. Malfoy has wormed his hand underneath Harry’s robes once again, pressing his fat signet ring into Harry’s skin, turning it just so that Harry’s flesh catches in its grooves.

“You’re the one obsessed with me,” Harry says hotly. He shoves at Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy shoves back. They end up with Malfoy’s thigh hot on Harry’s leg, and Harry can make out the faint scent of mint and lemons. 

“I knew it,” Malfoy says, ignoring Harry. His lips are parted and he breathes audibly. “This gets you off, huh? Me pushing you into a broom cupboard. Must be one of your fantasies.”

Harry can barely think over the sound of Malfoy breathing in his ear, over the feel of Malfoy’s weight prodding into his hip. He manages to untangle his hands from Malfoy’s hair and says coldly, “You wish,” before kneeing Malfoy solidly in the chest.

“Bastard,” Malfoy wheezes, and Harry rushes out of the broom cupboard into the empty hallway, robes damp with sweat. He tries to ignore the uncomfortable flush underneath his skin as he makes his way back to the common room, leaving Malfoy in the closet alone.

That night, as he lies in his four poster bed, Harry doesn’t think of the warm weight of Malfoy’s body, the curl of his lip. 

Harry’s hand slips under the waistband of his boxers, fingers tugging at his cock, and thinks of normal things – of slow, crooked smiles, of Ginny’s freckles and Dean’s large, capable hands – doesn’t think of Malfoy’s lips pressed into a thin line, resolutely does not think of the feel of Malfoy’s fingers on his skin as he comes.  
  


-  
  


The cold seeps into Harry’s skin, sends goosebumps all over his arms. He sits under his favorite tree by the lake with Hermione by his side. She flips through her notes, occasionally making a small noise of frustration. Idly, he taps his wand against the side of his thigh, watching the waves of the lake lap against the black pebbles of the shore.

Hermione lets out another, louder noise, and Harry turns his head to face her. She isn’t even looking through her notes; instead she’s staring towards the castle, where two silhouettes – Harry makes them out to be Lavender and Ron – are walking hand in hand.

“He’ll come around,” Harry says belatedly. 

“Ron has the right to go snogging anyone he likes,” Hermione says primly, “I don’t care.”

Harry lets out a hum of agreement, turns back to look at the lake.

A light zephyr ruffles his hair and Harry stuffs his wand back into his robes, drawing his cloak tighter around himself. He reaches down to grab a black pebble, and turns it over in his hand. The rock feels smooth under his calloused fingers. After weighing it thoughtfully, Harry tosses it into the lake.

“Not one for skipping rocks then,” Hermione says amusedly, the two of them watching the ripples spread across the lake.

“Not really,” Harry finally says.

The chill bites at his fingers, but Harry picks up another rock regardless, and tosses it into the lake. The sky is dull and gloomy and gray. Harry wonders idly when his next meeting with Dumbledore will be.

“Have I always been like this, ‘Mione?” Harry asks, his eyes drawn to the edge of the lake, to a patch of dark trees swaying in the wind. Rusty clay cliffs around the lake dig their peaks into the sky.

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Not really… fitting in I guess.” He thinks of Lavender Brown, her slim legs wrapped around Ron’s waist. He thinks of Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, attached at the hip and sitting at a dusty table at Madam Rosemerta’s.  He thinks of Padma Patil and her sister. Then he forces himself to wait for Hermione’s response.

She lets out a soft puff of air. “You’ve always fit in Harry, with me and Ron and Ginny and the lot. I just think things are changing now. People can change you know?”

Harry thinks of Malfoy’s rumpled hair, of the smell of mint and lemon.

This gets you off, huh, Malfoy had said, and Harry jerks suddenly, his elbow colliding with Hermione’s inkwell. It flies, neatly missing Hermione’s parchment and her clothes, plopping into the sand.

“Oh shite, sorry.”

Hermione puts a placating hand on Harry’s arm. “Leave it,” she says, already rolling up her parchment. The black ink seeps into wet sand. 

“Do you think people can change? Like really change?” Harry asks quietly a moment later. When Harry turns his head to look at Hermione, she’s watching the lake.

She sighs, her breath coming out in a cloud and she leans on Harry’s shoulder, a warm constant by his side. He tosses another rock into the murky waters, watches the concentric rings until they disappear in the waves. Her silence is answer enough.  
  


-  
  


A stream of first-years storm the corridor and Harry and Ron turn into the relative quiet of a small path running next to the green of a courtyard.

Sunlight streams onto Hogwarts’ grounds, and students have taken to milling around in the fair weather. Normally Harry would leap at the opportunity to take his Firebolt out and spend a golden afternoon with Ron and Ginny on the field, but lately he’s been declining their invitations.

“She’s not still mad is she?” Ron mutters to Harry, “I mean she seemed to have thrown a right fit after I woke up.”

“She visited you a lot, when you were out,” Harry says mildly, brushing past a pair of Hufflepuffs.

“But blimey mate, Slughorn says he meant the wine as a gift for Dumbledore. Do you reckon it’s Malfoy?” Ron’s voice is low and gravelly.

“Dunno,” Harry replies tersely. “You should talk to Hermione though.”

Ron follows Harry closely. “Think I will. She won’t be too mad if I apologize or anything?”

“Just talk to her,” Harry insists, and as they step into the grass of the courtyard, Ron murmurs, “And there he is.”

At this, Harry looks up in time to see Malfoy walking past Harry, shoving roughly into his shoulder and muttering, “Tosser.”

Harry clenches his teeth and grabs a fist full of Malfoy’s robes before the Slytherin can walk past. “What was that Malfoy? Couldn’t exactly hear you.”

“You heard me,” Malfoy says, and his eyes are vicious. “What are you gonna do about it Potter?” Harry crowds closer to Malfoy and belatedly, Harry realizes that the other boy has a good inch on Harry.

“You’re a prick,” Harry snarls and this close, Harry can see the flecks of silver in Malfoy’s grey irises, the faint smattering of freckles on his cheeks.

Malfoy barks out a laugh and Harry is dimly aware of the fact that half the courtyard has stopped to watch the two of them. He leans in close, and Harry feels a hand snaking into the sleeve of his robes, where no one else can see, feels the scrape of Malfoy’s nails against his wrist. This close, Harry’s almost sure Malfoy feels the shiver run through his body.

“You love my prick,” Malfoy says into Harry’s ear, lips barely brushing against the sensitive skin there before Malfoy shoves Harry out of the way. Harry flushes, not bothering to form a reply, simply grabs a bewildered Ron and drags him away.

“What was that all about?” Ron asks, as they leave the students in courtyard glancing suspiciously at Harry.

“Nothing,” Harry says, ignores the arousal unfurling low in his belly.  
  


-

“He’s using the Room of Requirement,” Harry mutters to Hermione, watches as she delicately tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Still talking about Malfoy then are we?” Ron comments, on the other side of Harry. Harry turns his head to say, “He’s up to something Ron, I know it,” and ignores the light sigh from behind him.

A dry spell has come over Hogwarts – no rain and only the blistering heat – but Professor Sprouts insists on continuing their lesson in Greenhouse Three. Today she’s rambling through the properties of dittany, and her voice goes in one of Harry’s ears and straight out the other.

“What do you reckon he’s doing then?” Ron asks, fingers rubbing absently at his nose.

“I dunno, but I’m trying to figure out,” Harry admits, thinking of the times he’s paced in front of said room – I need to know what Malfoy is doing inside you, I need the place where Malfoy goes –

Harry feels restless; there's an itchiness under his skin that he can't get to and it's driving him mad. 

“That where you been sneaking off to then?” Ron asks incredulously, thumb waltzing over a patch of freckles smattered over his cheek. “To find out what he’s been doing in the Room of Requirement?”

“You’ve been sneaking off?” Hermione hisses, “You both know that exams –“

“Yeah alright,” Ron appeases Hermione, “Don’t worry ‘Mione, we know,” and Hermione has her mouth open to reply but then apparently thinks better of it, snaps her mouth shut with an audible click and turns back to listen to Professor Sprout.

“Think he’s doing it for You-Know-Who then?” Ron asks darkly, voice low.

“Who else would he be doing it for? His mum?” Harry replies, and he can’t help the pique from creeping into his voice.  
  


-

 

It seems as though most of his friends had made up, Harry notices, as he walks out of breakfast with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny in tow – the three of them chattering in sunny voices. He feels disjointed somehow, like his bones don’t fit right in his skin.

Hermione and Ginny are discussing quills they saw in Hogsmeade and Ron interjects every once in a while, their voices piercingly sharp. It feels as though he’s watching the world go by from outside of his body when Harry tells the lot, “I forgot my Transfigurations textbook, I’ll meet you all there.”

Ron nods serenely to Harry but he’s unsure if Hermione and Ginny even heard him.

He turns back around, making his way back down the stairs. The silence is blissful, crashes over him in a cool relief.  He walks past a rusty suit of armor, right into Malfoy.

“Watch it, Potter,” Malfoy snarls. His hands catch in the pool of Harry’s sleeves.

“Shut it,” Harry retorts automatically. In his chest, his heartbeat quickens.

“Make me,” Malfoy narrows his eyes. His lips are pale. Something in Harry’s stomach twists, and he yanks, pulling Malfoy into the empty classroom behind them. The door slams in their wake.

They collide with a desk; Malfoy slips his hand into his robes to pull out his wand, then locks the door with a swish.  _ We’re really doing this _ , Harry thinks then. Malfoy pulls close and Harry feels his stomach tightening with anticipation already.

“Malfoy,” Harry hisses, and Malfoy jerks back but ends up getting closer. His breath hitches when Malfoy twitches his hips just so. 

“Glad to know you remember my name,” and the feel of Malfoy underneath him sends a tingle straight to his groin. Harry breathes against Malfoy’s neck, takes quick little breaths as Malfoy works his hand into Harry’s robes, strokes three fingers against Harry’s erection. 

It feels a bit like déjà vu when Malfoy breathes right into Harry’s ear, presses the hard line of his incisors into Harry’s skin. Harry thinks he can taste lemon on his tongue.

Malfoy’s skin is warm to the touch, palm smoothing down Harry’s length and Harry lets out a guttural noise, lips pressing against the vein in Malfoy’s neck. Three fingers press bruises onto the skin of Harry’s shoulders. Harry tilts his head back and bites down a groan.

Harry feels the familiar tightness in his abdomen, closes his eyes and presses his nose and lips into the underside of Malfoy’s jaw, smells lemon and mint as he comes in a humiliating rush.

“Like that, don’t you,” Malfoy breathes, and Harry doesn’t have a chance to reply before Malfoy pinches his shoulder, nails biting into skin, then slides out from underneath Harry’s pliant body, leaving the door gaping wide behind him.

Harry comes to Transfigurations late, hair rumpled and robes wrinkled. The itching sensation has gone from his body and instead his cheeks are flushed, eyes watering. Hermione eyes him over her essay, watches him explain to McGonagall that he forgot his textbook in the common room.  
  


-

 

“Professor,” Harry pleads, and Slughorn waves him away dismissively, ushers him from the Potions classroom. Harry can’t help but feel failure blooming in his chest.

 

-

 

After a brief dry spell, rain comes once again out of the blue, in the middle of the afternoon, turning the clean, milky sky into a mélange of purple bruises. It leaves the smell of petrichor in the air, and for the first time since he’s returned to Hogwarts, Harry feels like flying.

“In the rain?” Ginny says, incredulous. She carries a fat textbook in her arms and Harry doesn’t have the strength to argue with her. “You’ll catch pneumonia.”

“Honestly Harry,” Hermione agrees, “You can’t go out in this weather.”

Harry clenches his Firebolt tighter, opens his mouth to speak when Seamus interjects loudly.

“Oi, leave the man alone. He wants to fly, so let him fly.”

“Harry hasn’t wanted to fly for ages,” Dean agrees, “Let him go.”

The pair pause in their game of exploding snap. Harry just wants to get out of the common room. When Ginny and Hermione turn to face Dean and Seamus, Harry slips out through the portrait hole, the Fat Lady humming behind him. 

The rain is relentless, fat droplets spilling out of the sky and collecting in Harry’s robes, and the quidditch field is mercifully empty – just as Harry thought it might be. He mutters a quick charm to keep his glasses dry and kicks off the ground.

Fat droplets fall around him, and Harry is content to leave the world behind. Wind rushes past his ears and Harry soars around the field lazily.

The wetness soaks Harry’s sleeves but he doesn’t mind, shaking his wrists off one by one and adjusting his grip on his broom. The memory of Malfoy’s nails scraping his wrist comes to mind.

Were things ever really normal?

Safely absconded from the chattering of his house, Harry’s mind begins to turn, gears clicking and thoughts churning: of Horcruxes and half-blood princes, of Malfoy and of Dumbledore’s black, black hand.

He leans forward on his Firebolt, wind racing past his ears and the cold biting, sneaking under his robes to pinch his skin. All thoughts fade into the sound of the wind, and when his mind finally grinds to a halt, Harry feels a rush of cathartic release. His head is clearer than it has been in days.

His robes are soaked and his fingers freezing, but he manages to make his way back to the quidditch room, feet plodding on wet grass.

The locker rooms are blissfully empty upon Harry’s entrance; he puts his broomstick down before pulling off his soggy robes. He’s just gotten trousers on when the door swings open, slamming into the wall and then shut again.

“Fucking hell,” growls a voice. “Of all fucking people, who would be flying in the bloody rain, only Saint Potter is the one in the locker room at the same time as me.”

“Looking a bit off there, Malfoy,” Harry acknowledges. And it’s true – there are bags under his eyes that are nearly the size of Hermione’s and his skin is pale as parchment.

“You disgust me,” Malfoy snaps. His voice sends a shiver rippling down Harry’s spine. “You don’t know me, you don’t know what I’ve gone through – ”

“Just that your dad fucked up enough to earn himself a cell in Azkaban. Maybe you’ll be reunited with him sometime soon,” slips out of Harry’s mouth and he barely registers that he maybe didn’t really mean it, only wanted to get a rise out of Malfoy –

But the boy in question has Harry’s hair clenched in his fists, knee digging into Harry’s thigh, pressing against his trousers. “Don’t talk about him,” Malfoy hisses into Harry’s ear and Harry’s spine is pressed painfully against the shower stall.  

Harry’s chest is damp and moist, skin sensitive when Malfoy’s thick coat rasps against his skin. Harry’s prick is more than half-hard, pressing insistently into the sharp curve of Malfoy’s hip. His breath comes irregularly, and he feels Malfoy’s teeth ghosting along his jaw.

“I hate you,” Malfoy breathes.

Malfoy crowds Harry against the wall: Harry’s head hits it and he lets out a gasp. One of Malfoy’s hands slides down Harry’s chest, tugging at his belt.  

“I hate you,” as Malfoy tugs open Harry’s trousers. A whimper escapes from Harry’s mouth, his prick fully erect and curved toward his stomach. Harry moves his hands to Malfoy’s belt, fumbling with the buckle. In a moment, Malfoy’s pants are undone, and Harry’s spitting in his hand, wrapping his palm around Malfoy’s prick.

Something catches in Malfoy’s throat – Harry can hear it – and Harry feels the line of Malfoy’s nose bumping underneath his jaw when Harry runs his thumb over the head of Malfoy’s prick. It feels strange – the angle is unfamiliar and Malfoy’s cock is a little thicker than Harry’s, but when Malfoy cants his hip just so, Malfoy’s prick slides next to Harry’s, creating delicious friction that curls Harry’s toes.

Arousal aches in his belly, clenching tight in his gut. Harry thinks he can feel sweat drip down his spine.

Malfoy drags a fingernail along the inside of Harry’s thigh, barely scraping the skin there and it feels like an echo of their interaction in the courtyard. The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand up when Malfoy teases the sensitive skin so close to his groin.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, the back of his head resting on the shower stall behind him.

Malfoy brushes Harry’s hand away from his cock, pulls both of their pricks into his palm now, tugging harshly. Malfoy’s hands are unbelievably soft, his skin smooth and unblemished. Harry pants and he comes in a rush.

Harry feels Malfoy take himself into hand; Harry looks down just in time to see Malfoy coming in spilling over his stomach.

“Hate you,” Malfoy mumbles, digging his nails into Harry’s scalp as if for emphasis.

“I know,” Harry says.  
  


-  
  


Over the course of the next few weeks, everything in Hogwarts blurs to a few simple points: getting the memory from Slughorn, finding out what Malfoy’s doing and fucking Malfoy. However, Harry’s not sure when the last two points have merged into one sloppy mistake.

Malfoy seems stranger than ever now. 

There are some times when Malfoy seems to find Harry alone at the most opportune moments.

When he’s alone, walking back from dinner or to a class, Malfoy pulls him into an empty classroom or alcove or broom closet and tucks his pale hands into Harry’s trousers. Harry comes fast and furtive every time, Malfoy’s mouth set in an angry line.

Example: one Sunday evening, in the darkness of the recess right beside the viaduct courtyard, Harry has his trousers half undone, Draco Malfoy’s lips wrapped around his cock. It feels fucking glorious – the hot, wet, slickness of Malfoy’s mouth gliding easily around his dick, tongue swirling around the head and Harry whines, fingers tangled in Malfoy’s hair, watches spit glisten on Malfoy’s lip.

“Oh,” is all Harry can say, toes curled in his shoes and every muscle in his body coiled in tight anticipation. Malfoy pulls off with a lewd pop, lips swollen and eyes dark with lust as he finishes Harry with his hand. Malfoy watches Harry come, leaking all over his chest, and then wipes his come-covered hand on Harry’s robes.

He leaves with spittle still on his chin, and Harry pulls his pants back up, hands fumbling with the zipper.

And there are the other times.

Example: Harry and Hermione make their way to class, Charms and Ancient Runes, respectively. Hermione is thumbing through her notes and Harry attempts to steer her through the Monday morning crowd.

“Oi, Potter,” he hears, and a sinking dread fills his stomach. Harry turns to see Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. “You steering your Mudblood bitch to class then? Good thing she’s got you to tell her where to go, eh?”

Blood begins to boil under Harry’s skin, and the familiar anger floods his veins.

“Leave it,” Hermione says primly, walking past them and dragging Harry along with her.

The next time they meet alone, Malfoy punches Harry in the nose and cracks his glasses.

Harry digs a sharp bruise into Malfoy’s windpipe with his elbow and Malfoy grabs a fistful of Harry’s hair, mashes his cheek into the staircase railing. Harry’s about to dig his nails into the soft skin right above Malfoy’s hip before they’re dragged apart by two Ravenclaws.

In the mornings, when the other Gryffindor boys are still sleeping, Harry has the bathroom to himself. In the mirror, he can see the outlines of Malfoy’s teeth on his skin, of angry red scratches and purpling bruises.  
  


-  
  


Felix Felicis rests in a tiny, gleaming bottle, cool to the touch and surprisingly heavy in Harry’s hands.

“Well, here goes,” Harry says and liquid luck courses through his veins. Harry is Atlas as he shrugs, pushing the weight of the world off his shoulders. 

Harry feels good, unbelievably good, about not only Hagrid’s and Slughorn’s memory, but Malfoy as well. The memories of Malfoy in Dumbledore’s office and Malfoy with Snape outside Slughorn’s party align in a way that is startling clever, as if Harry has just awoken from a fever dream.

It is only after Harry has crept into the castle, mumbled “toffee eclairs,” to Dumbledore’s gargoyle when Harry realizes how much space Malfoy takes up in his mind. Stepping onto the spiral staircase, all thoughts of Malfoy are pushed aside, and instead, Harry delves into Slughorn’s untampered memory.

“I won’t say a word, sir,” Riddle says, and his features twist into an ugly caricature of happiness.

Harry is whisked back into the present and his head is reeling. He leaves Dumbledore’s office with the Headmaster’s words echoing in his head –

You are free to choose your way.  
  


-  
  


More often than ever before Harry finds himself in the company of Luna Lovegood.

Ron and Hermione are seemingly attached at the hip now, and while Harry really does want them to be happy – honestly, he does – their newfound conjunction tugs at the delicate seams of their friendship. Trying to follow the tumulus undulations of their relationship is not unlike trying to capture the illusory crumple-horned snorkack: painful, stupid, and ultimately, not worth it.

One pale Saturday morning finds Harry on the steps to the West Tower, lingering outside the threshold of the Owlery, but only just. He so very rarely finds other students here in the early morn, but Luna is the exception.

“Hello, Harry,” she says, eyes free from spectrespecs for a change. She holds a brown paper package in the palm of her hand: a square shaped thing wrapped with white yarn.

“Hullo,” he manages.

Wind howls around them and when Harry breathes he can see his breath solidifying in front of him.

“Rather cold for you to be standing here alone,” Luna observes not unkindly. She pulls on his sleeve gently, “Come help me send this off, will you?”

“Where’s Hedwig?” she asks, as the two of them pick their way through the dung droppings and scrap pieces of parchment paper, to where Luna’s owl hoots dolefully.

“Off. I suppose she’s stretching her wings.”

“Muggle owls are nocturnal you know,” Luna mentions softly, “It’s just that wizarding owls are raised differently.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry admits.

“That’s how our owls aren’t sleeping during the day all the time,” Luna murmurs. “Anyway, I got this for my dad. There’s this wonderful new shop just past Zonko’s and they sell the oddest trinkets there,” Luna runs a finger down the length of her owl, holding up her package in her other hand.

“What is it?”

“A terrarium,” Luna says gently.

“Like the Muggle ones?”

“No, not exactly. See, the terrarium is a reflection. It’s a replica of the Forbidden Forest. You can see little birds and centaurs if you look closely.”

Harry muses for a moment. “Are there lots of trinkets like this? Except for seeing different things?”

Luna turns to Harry and cocks her head, speculative. “There’s one for weather, if you’re talking about things like that. A tempestarium, I believe. And a planetarium for the stars and the planets too. They’re rather nice, actually.” Luna pauses for a moment. “Would you like me to take you there sometime?”

“No, I just saw something like it somewhere else, it’s fine.”

“Alright,” Luna says with her usual air of serenity. Her fingers work deftly, tying her package to the leg of her rather morose-looking owl. “This Ana de Mendoza, by the way, Princess of Eboli. Dad named her after a woman in a Muggle play.”

“Fascinating,” Harry says, and Luna hums in agreement. The Princess of Mendoza lets out a single hoot before flying out of the Owlery, taking Luna’s terrarium of the Forbidden Forest with her.

The pair makes their way down the stairs, and Harry is careful not to slip on the stone steps.

“I do hope there’s rhubarb pie tonight during dinner,” Luna murmurs and Harry lets out an affirmative noise. The wind bites at his nose and ensnares its talons into the exposed skin of Harry’s neck. Luna hums a melancholic melody under her breath, playing with the plastic necklace hanging from her neck.

As they step onto the dirt footpath that leads to the Sundial Garden, Harry manages, “Luna,” and she stops humming. “Yes Harry?”

“Do you think people can choose what their lives are going to be like? Like take matters into their own hands?”

For a moment, Harry thinks that Luna isn’t going to respond.

“Yes,” she says finally, her voice thoughtful. She runs her fingers along the stone sundial, seemingly unaware of the cold that nips at Harry’s fingers. “My parents always believed in fate. When my mum’s spell backfired, she was doing what she loved – experimenting with spells.” Luna’s tone is deceptively light. “She chose what she wanted to do, and that was just what happened.” She turns to look at Harry and her eyes are remarkably blue. “Don’t you think so?”

Harry lets out a long, billowing breath. “I don’t think people can choose the way they live their lives,” he admits. “At least I don’t want to.” 

“It’s all how you see it, I think,” Luna replies easily, and Harry watches the flowery material of her skirt dance in the breeze. “You can grow up, being led down a certain path for all your life,” Luna pauses for a moment here, stepping delicately onto the wooden bridge. Harry follows.

“But you can always take matters into your own hands, can’t you? If you really wanted to, you’d find a way to change,” she says.

“I suppose,” Harry sighs, but something in his gut twinges, tells him that it isn’t all that easy.

 

-

 

The lip of the table digs into the skin right above the swell of Harry's arse, into the small of his back, and Harry's hands sprawl across the grainy surface, sweaty and fluttering.

"I'm gonna fuck you Potter," Malfoy snarls, bucking his hips. "Gonna fuck you so bloody hard you won't be able to walk tomorrow," and the promise has Harry writhing underneath the blonde boy's ministrations. 

Malfoy's thin fingers are cool as they slide up Harry's thigh, tug at his cock. Harry's head is buried in the crook of Malfoy's neck, the scent of minty lemon washing over him. His moans are muffled in the curve Malfoy's clavicle, and Harry mouths at the skin there.

Malfoy whispers a spell and Harry feels the drip of a thin liquid over his thighs, the nudge of Malfoy's fingers into the ring of his arsehole.

"Come on," Harry mutters, and Malfoy complies, plunging a finger into him.

The intrusion is unfamiliar, in a good way, presses into Harry in a way that he's never been able to do himself.

"Oh God," Harry groans, threads his fingers through the fine hairs on the back of Malfoy's neck to anchor himself.

Another finger slides in to join the first, and Malfoy crooks his fingers and hits that something, and Harry is clenching his eyes shut, arching his spine up to Malfoy.

"Oh god."

As Harry's head is thrown back, Malfoy nips his way up Harry's chest, tongue skipping over the thatch of hair trailing from the base of Harry's cock, over the lines of his chest and up the column of his exposed neck. Malfoy smirks here, and Harry can feel his lips curving against his skin.

His hand is still pumping inside Harry, wrist wringing delicately. The joints of Malfoy's knuckles create a delicious friction against the tight ring of muscle of Harry's hole, the tips of his fingers flit over that spot continuously, not nearly as much pressure as the first time Malfoy had found the spot.

"Malfoy," Harry finds himself gasping, toes curling and muscles tightening. "Please, I –" He’s at a loss for words, the scissoring motion that Malfoy has adopted rendering him mute.

Malfoy's cock lies thick and heavy on Harry's thigh and the muscles in his stomach tighten. He reaches out and finds that Malfoy's cock fits perfectly in his palm. Malfoy's tongue rasps over a spot on Harry's neck and Harry pulls Malfoy's dick closer, brushes the head against his hole. In response, Malfoy bites a bruise into the pillar of Harry's neck.

Harry lets out a soft growl, arousal pulsing through his veins, winds his hands to Malfoy's hips and presses forward.

He's vaguely aware of Malfoy's teeth pressed against his skin, but he's mostly overwhelmed by how full he feels. It's uncomfortable at first, but the ache slowly throbs into a hungry, carnal desire.

"Move," he says, through his teeth, and Malfoy does. He rolls his hips in that horribly, wonderfully, sinful way of his and somewhere in the back of his mind Harry thinks this might be the first time Malfoy's listened to what Harry's said.

The table that Malfoy's got Harry pushed against starts creaking as Malfoy begins to thrust faster, and Harry's hands flutter around Malfoy's hips for a moment before burrowing into Malfoy's head of hair.

Malfoy breathes heavily, one hand clenching bruises into Harry's hip and the other holding the edge of the table for support. Harry's jaw falls slack as Malfoy thrusts in, hard, and swivels his hips so his cock hits right there, right fucking there and Harry cries out, pulls so hard on Malfoy's hair he's afraid it'll fall out.

His cock is hard and pink, curved over his stomach and it's dribbling precome onto Harry's stomach. One of Malfoy's hands wraps around Harry's throbbing erection, pulling and tugging and twisting until Harry comes and comes and comes.

When the cloud of post-climax dissipates, Malfoy is fucking Harry into the desk, eyes livid and both hands planted on the table, ramming into Harry with a force that makes the table rattle.

Harry lifts his legs to wrap around Malfoy's waist and even with his cock limp and flaccid, a flash of pleasure flits up Harry's backbone every time Malfoy slams into his prostate 

"Fuck," Malfoy whispers into Harry's cheek, lips hovering over his skin. The empty classroom is quickly filled with the salacious sounds of Malfoy's bollocks slapping against the skin of Harry's arse. The only warning Harry gets is a sharp intake of breath, before Malfoy slams in one last time, comes inside of Harry with a quiet moan.  
  


\-   
  


“Harry, you've got – 

Harry frowns. "I what?" 

Across from him, Ron makes the same vague gesture, which is hindered by the forkful of scrambled egg that he holds, "Bags, Harry. Under your eyes."

"I guess I haven't been sleeping well," he shrugs, and tugs uncomfortably at his collar, cheeks turning pink when he remembers the purple hickeys dotting his collar line. His fingers manage to snag his goblet of pumpkin juice, cold liquid sliding down his throat.

"Maybe you could ask Madam Pomfrey for some Sleeping Draught," adds Ginny, who sits at his side. He feels her fingers, petite and tentative at his elbow.

"Maybe," Harry says.  
  


-  
  


Harry dreams of Professor Trelawney.

She’s wearing spectrespecs, and standing on the edge of the lake, attempting to siphon spilled ink back into its well, but all she gets is black sand stuck under her fingernails. Harry clears his throat, and she looks up.

“My dear, who are you fighting?” she asks, lips turned into some semblance of a smile, eyes wide and glassy.

And then she melts into the ink which she was trying to recover, seeping into the sand.

Harry blinks and the dream shifts.

He sees a black crow, pecking in the sand, surrounded by pigeons. There are slices of lemon on the ground and Harry wonders if he should eat one.

Sunlight refracts into his dream and Harry wakes up slowly, blinking back the last dregs of slumber. Light slashes through his window and Harry finds himself the only boy awake in his dormitory. He slips out of his sheets and washes his face, changes quickly.

Hogwarts is quiet and mellow on Saturdays, this one in particular. Harry's feet take him down the grand staircase, outside of the castle, and the sky is a cocktail of ecru and cerulean outside. 

The sun soaks into his skin and Harry begins to feel it warming his bones. By the forest, Harry can see Hagrid with a few first years outside his hut and he feels a reminiscent tug. Sweeping his gaze further, he sees a throng of Ravenclaws walking towards the greenhouses.

He tucks his hands into his pockets and begins to walk.

As he draws closer it, the familiar scent of the lake washes over him, sea salt cloying and sticky. The pebbles rattle under Harry's steps, crunching lightly. He stops under the leaning shadow of his favorite tree.

The breeze picks up slightly, turning in a way that brings a waft of something bitter under Harry's nose. 

The sun climbs higher into the sky, and Harry remains quiet, kicking rocks into the lake. When the bustle of students begins to emanate from the castle, Harry turns away from the crowd and keeps kicking rocks into the lake until the sun begins to burn his skin.

 

-  
  


Malfoy is the first to leave the Potions class, textbook snapping shut as soon as Slughorn concludes the class, leaving everyone else behind, still cleaning their stations. 

Harry is a quick second, cramming his books into his bag and trailing after. He leaves Ron at his station, still scooping up spilled Sopophorous bean juice. 

"Following me again, Potter," Malfoy states blandly when Harry manages to catch up to him on the staircase. 

"Surprised?" 

"Hardly," Malfoy barely glances at Harry when he replies, keeps going up the steps without another word. 

Malfoy continues sweeping through the halls, robes billowing to accommodate his strides; Harry has to pace to keep up with him. 

"Where you going?" Harry says, pushes past a gaggle of Gryffindor girls to follow Malfoy. They weave through the crowd of students, into the viaduct courtyard. 

"The boathouse."

"Why're you going to the boathouse?" Harry insists, and Malfoy halts in his tracks so quickly, Harry almost runs into him when the blond boy spins around. They end up nose to nose; he sees the faint splash of freckles on Malfoy's cheek. 

"Because I knew you would follow me," Malfoy smirks, and the edges of his mouth are as sharp as a blade. His breath is hot and makes Harry blinks; when Harry opens his eyes again, Malfoy has stalked across half the courtyard.  

"Malfoy!" Harry calls, and when the other boy is still moving, Harry curses under his breath, but follows Malfoy across the viaduct regardless, down the steps to the boathouse. 

The boathouse is, unsurprisingly, empty. Light refracts through the green-tinted windows, filling the whole place with a dull, viridescent color. Waves lap quietly at the stone docks, and the moss-covered stairs are covered with pearls of lake water.  

Malfoy stands at the far end of the boathouse, one pale hand tapping at a glass window, and the other hidden in his robes. He stands tall, eyes averted out the window and Harry's breath catches in his throat, sees the pale green dancing on Malfoy's cheekbones. 

A moment passes and Harry clears his throat, "What did you bring me here for?"

"Why did you follow me here?" Malfoy counters, anger taut underneath his words. He turns to face Harry, then covers the distance between them with a few quick steps, "You're the one that took it upon yourself to follow me here, Potter," Malfoy almost spits and he's standing toe-to-toe with Harry now, his head crooked down to look at Harry. “You’re always following me around, making sure I don’t do anything that old man Dumbledore wouldn’t want me to do.”

"I think you rather wanted me to follow you," Harry says, and his eyes dart over the pale color of Malfoy's lips, "You said so yourself."

Malfoy's hands flutter at Harry's sides, like snowflakes falling, them finally, finally, he lunges forward, hands fisting in Harry's hair, pushing the both of them against the glass wall of the boathouse. 

Impulsively, Harry twists up, catches Malfoy's bottom lip between his teeth, runs his wet tongue along his length and shudders at the silkiness of Malfoy's skin. 

A little growl escapes from Malfoy's throat and the noise is low, rumbling against Harry's chest, sending a delicious tingle down his spine. Briefly, Harry thinks of how this is their first kiss, but doesn't have time to contemplate the disorder of events, only feels the softness of Malfoy's lips moving against his.

Malfoy's erection presses insistently at Harry's hip, a familiar heaviness against his skin. Harry tugs at the front of Malfoy's robes, pulls away to whisper, "Off."

"As you wish," Malfoy replies smoothly, pulling his robes and shirt over his head and Harry runs his palms over the planes of Malfoy's chest, reveling in the smoothness of his pale skin, fingers flicking delicately at Malfoy's nipples and Malfoy leans in to capture Harry's mouth in another bruising kiss. 

Harry's robes and both of their trousers are quickly shucked, discarded carelessly onto the dark floor. The knobs of Harry's spine dig into the warm glass of the boathouse as Malfoy leans into him. 

Harry's legs spread easily and Malfoy steps neatly into the slot left for him, murmuring the spell again, slides two slick, deft fingers into Harry's aching arse. As the pad of Malfoy's pointer finger brushes against his prostate, Harry gasps, spine arching and Malfoy is relentless, continually pushing and thrusting his hand in a cascade of questions – Harry has no choice but to writhe and squirm and thrash underneath him in answer. 

His head slams against the glass and Harry's eyes screw shut, hardly cataloging the pain as he's overcome with the thickness of Malfoy's cock sliding into him. Malfoy's chest presses into Harry's and the glass is moist and sweaty against Harry's back; Malfoy hitches up Harry's legs and obligingly Harry wraps his legs around Malfoy's waist – the new angle is positively divine. Malfoy slams into Harry with every thrust and Harry's chest is heaving, every movement sending ribbons of pleasure up his backbone. 

They fuck quietly, Malfoy's lips brushing against Harry's, and Malfoy jerks Harry off roughly, comes inside him after with a broken cry. 

The air around them is cloying with the scent of sex, thick and hot in Harry's nose. He runs his palms through Malfoy's impossibly blond hair and it feels like satin under his touch. 

"You're a half decent fuck, you know," Malfoy says finally, eyes dark. His lips are swollen when they untangle themselves, and Harry scoops up his robes, shoves his jeans on hastily. He mutters a quick cleaning spell to vanish the sticky come on his skin, hears Malfoy do the same.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Harry says, turns to watch Malfoy pull on his robes slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. His skin is still that same creamy milk-white, and Harry eyes the ropey muscles flexing in his arms as Malfoy does up his pants. 

“Just didn't expect it, is all," Malfoy drawls. The look in his eyes is dangerous. 

Harry steps up to Malfoy, right in front of him, and says, "There's a lot you don't know about me.”

He doesn't wait for a reply, just presses his mouth against the thin line of Malfoy's frown. 

 

-

 

"When you say you had lots in common," says Ron, sounding rather amused now, "d'you mean he lives in an S-bend too?"

"No," says Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom, reverberating inside the walls. "I mean he's sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn't got anybody to talk to, and he's not afraid to show his feelings and cry!"

"There's been a boy in here crying?" says Harry curiously. "A young boy?"

"Never mind!" Myrtle screeches, her small, leaky eyes fixed on Ron, who is grinning his lopsided grin, the one so achingly familiar. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, and I'll take his secret to the —"

"— not the grave, surely?" says Ron with a snort. "The sewers, maybe."

Myrtle howls with rage and dives back into the toilet, water slopping over the sides and trickling sadly onto the floor.  
  


-  
  


There’s a low churning in Harry’s gut, hot and hungry.

He refuses to attribute this feeling to the fact that he hasn’t seen much of Malfoy for the better part of the week, to the fact that has only had the small curve of his own hand wrapped around his dick at night and he keeps imagining the softness of Malfoy’s skin, thinks of the delicate ring of bruises he wants to bite into Malfoy’s neck.

Harry feels like a crowded animal, trapped in the corner of a cell. He can feel his heart thundering out of his chest and Harry feels too full in his own skin, wants to feel that horrendously wonderful burn in his throat when Malfoy wraps his skinny fingers around Harry’s wrist.

Between classes and after he’s slipped away from dinner, Harry pulls out the Marauder’s Map, sees Malfoy’s name scrawled onto the parchment but every time Harry turns the corner to where Malfoy is supposed to be, the boy in question has gone.

Even Ron and Hermione have noticed something’s off, but he mostly ignores them, fidgets in class, rushes to the dorms to jerk off and slips out under the cover of the Invisibility Cloak to pace around the coolness of the lake. He kicks pebbles into the waves and dips his toes into the cold water.

Just when he thinks that the skin on his prick is beginning to develop chafing, Harry sees a shock of blond-white hair the next day. 

The blood in his veins begins to simmer and he almost sprints down the corridor to twist around the corner, practically dives into Malfoy and shoves them into the dark recess of an alcove. He ignores the fact that he has to be at Potions in a few minutes.

Even under a layer of robes, Harry feels Malfoy’s soft flesh give, his body pliant as Harry’s fingers press into the skin.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Harry pants and the words are raspy in his mouth, feel like nails on his tongue. “I know, I know you’re doing something.”

Malfoy breathes through his mouth, breath puffing against Harry’s cheek. Harry feels Malfoy’s nails against his robes, Malfoy’s mouth curved into a wicked snarl, sharp as a knife, when he replies with a low, “Go fuck yourself,” eyes narrowed into slits.

Even in the shadows, Harry can see the livid bruises under Malfoy’s eyes as he pushes into Malfoy, hands planted into his chest. This close, Malfoy’s skin looks ashy and sick.

“You’re a real tosser, you know that Malfoy,” Harry hisses and all he can think of is Malfoy dressed down in nothing but his pale skin.

“Go fuck yourself Potter,” Malfoy repeats and he shoves Harry aside, rushes down the corridor in a flurry. He leaves nothing behind but the faint scent of lemon and a blinking Harry in his wake.  
  


-

 

The cistern shatters and water splashes under his shoes. Dimly, Harry registers that his socks are beginning to swell with bathroom water. His feet slip and catch, hands fumbling as he crashes into the floor – he can see Malfoy’s face contorted, lips twisted crookedly –

Moaning Myrtle is wailing and her screams pierce Harry’s ears, his eyes twisting in pain.

His fingers slip in the wet and Harry ducks under a leaking sink, wand clattering to the floor; he hears the bang of Malfoy’s spell refracting as it bounces off a mirror.

“Accio wand!” Malfoy shouts, and Harry’s wand flies across the bathroom.

For another heartbeat, both boys are silent, the sound of dripping water filling the bathroom.

“You’re a fucking coward, you know that,” Harry says sharply, chest heaving to fill his lungs with air. Suddenly, his mind spins with the clarity of felix felicius, and the words tumble easily from his mouth. “You’re sneaking around, trying to execute this grand plan, but you’re fucking failing. You’re failing your task because you’re too much of a coward to do anything yourself – you’re hiding behind a bloody necklace, a bottle of poisoned wine. What’s next? You gonna – ”

Harry thinks that his words have created their desired effect, but a buzzing noise begins to fill Harry’s head. He’s not sure if he heard Malfoy whisper a venomous silencio, but his jaw works and no words come out of his mouth. He feels a tingling feeling crawling under his skin.

“You don’t,” Malfoy’s voice quivers, Harry can hear it. “You don’t know who I am.” His words are dangerously slow, dripping with rancor, but Harry’s pulse still quickens under his skin, and he thinks of the delicate bones in Malfoy’s fingers, the unnoticeable calluses on his hands.

Somewhere behind him, Moaning Myrtle lets out a pathetic whimper.

“You don’t know who I am,” Malfoy echoes himself, his words rasping, and Harry wonders who he is trying to convince. Harry flips onto his belly silently, begins to crawl on his hands and knees to where Malfoy’s voice emanates.

“You think it’s fucking easy, if you waltz into my life and take my prick up your ass that I’ll tell you every bloody thing you want to know – ”

Harry is close now; Malfoy is tucked behind a bathroom stall and the wands in his hands are twitching violently, his cheeks burgeon with crimson. “Let me tell you, Potter,” Malfoy spits his name as if it were bitter in his mouth –

Harry creeps closer now, Malfoy unaware –

“It isn’t that fucking easy – ” and Harry grabs Malfoy around the waist, arms lashing out frantically. Malfoy chokes in surprise, fists pummeling Harry’s head, wands clattering to the floor, forgotten.

Dull pain swells at the base of Harry’s neck, where his neck connects with the top of his spine, and he gasps for breath. “Fuck,” he wheezes, his voice back again, hands fumbling for his wand. 

“You don’t fucking know me,” Malfoy growls, his hands fluttering like birds, trying to find purchase in Harry’s robes. Harry bucks and heaves, attempting to throw Malfoy off him. “It’s impossible,” Malfoy hisses, and it seems as though he’s talking to himself more than Harry now. “It’s fucking impossible, I can’t – I can’t – ”

Malfoy digs his nails into the skin of Harry’s neck, pain biting with its incisors as Malfoy tears at his skin. “He’s going to kill me,” Harry thinks Malfoy murmurs under his breath and Harry tightens his grip on his wand.

“What,” Harry winces, “What do you have to do?”

And the effect is instantaneous. Malfoy’s muscles clench and freeze, eyes widening in horror, as if he just realized what he said aloud. Then, “What else would I have to do?” Malfoy screams, his voice shrill and high like Myrtle’s. His elbow collides with Harry’s gut, and he doubles over, trying to grab hold of Malfoy’s skinny knees, his ankles, his feet.

Malfoy grabs the back of Harry’s robes, slams him onto the floor. “You said it yourself, you wanker,” he shouts and his knees rest heavy on Harry’s chest and Harry’s heart is pounding. The necklace. And the wine, Harry thinks.

“Fucking Potter thinks he can stroll in and save the day, save poor Draco Malfoy. You’ve collected a whole hoard of them haven’t you? Saved Weasel from the clutches of poverty, that little Mudblood from evil Slytherins. You think you’re so fucking high and mighty – ” Malfoy rambles hysterically and Harry’s brain is reeling, “Shut up,” he hisses, lands a solid punch on Malfoy’s jaw. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” says Malfoy, and his eyes are positively livid, his face screaming and expression absolutely murderous.

Harry lunges.

They tumble into a puddle of sink water, a potpourri of gangly limbs and bruises. Harry’s mouth mashes onto Malfoy’s; it’s all tongue and teeth and skin. They’re ripping at each other and Harry feels Malfoy’s hands everywhere – his nails tearing Harry’s scalp, his fingers ripping down the length of Harry’s neck, palms pounding Harry’s shoulders.

Their teeth clack with force and Malfoy presses his teeth into Harry’s lip, as if he wants to leave an indentation there. Saliva drips down Harry’s chin, and then Malfoy grabs his wand before stumbling back, kicks Harry in the chest with such vigor that the two of them skid across the floor from each other. 

“What else would I have to do?” Malfoy shouts again and his hex misses Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry throws himself sideways, thinks Levicorpus! and flicks his wand, but Malfoy blocks the jinx and raises his wand for another –

Malfoy’s eyes are feverish, cheeks florid and chest heaving –

“Cruci – ”

“SECTUMSEMPRA!” tears out of Harry’s mouth and all he can see is blood swirling from the gaping wounds in Malfoy’s chest.  
  


-

 

Diya’s Emporium is the newest shop in Hogsmeade, just past Zonko’s. It sells the oddest trinkets, like terrariums and tempestariums and planetariums.

This is where Harry finds himself that weekend, Luna Lovegood peering at a silver frog by his side. 

"This is lovely," Luna says. "I reckon Ginny might fancy this." 

"Maybe," Harry replies, hands sweating in his pockets. 

"She also fancies you, you know," Luna notes offhandedly. 

Harry lets out a shallow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Well, I think we're better off as just friends," he says slowly. 

"She seemed a bit sad after the quidditch match – "

Harry thinks of the blazing expression on her face when he'd returned from the dungeons, how fierce she'd looked after he hugged her tightly and then retired to his room. 

"But Hermione spoke to her a bit so I reckon she'll be fine."

Luna glances at Harry. 

"Did you want anything? I think I'd rather go now."

Harry nods, his throat suddenly dry. 

Luna pays for the peeping frog and they head back to the castle. 

"Luna," he asks. “Have you ever forgiven someone, even though they might’ve done something horrible?”

She's quiet for a moment, brushes invisible dirt off of her robes and rubs her onion earrings between forefinger and thumb. 

“Yes,” she says thoughtfully. “I was rather cross with my mum, for leaving me and Dad. After her spell backfired, he always seemed sad for the longest time.” Her voice is clear and lilting.  “I forgave her though.” She turns to look over the railing of the bridge, into the chasm below. “Don’t you think it’s easier to just forgive?”

“I think I don’t want to forgive. I don’t want to forget,” he admits, taking a place next to her. He puts his hands on the railing, before realizing there is dust on the wooden bridge, and pulling his hands off again. 

“It’s part of being human, I think,” Luna murmurs, and Harry shakes the dust off his hands. “Forgiving and forgetting. Holding onto painful memories is like,” Luna lets out a pleasant hum, “It’s like holding onto the shards of a broken mirror. You can try to hold onto the pieces, to remember, but all it does is hurt you. Wouldn’t it be better to forgive and forget?”

“Maybe,” Harry says, but Malfoy's words are still floating in his ears: it's impossible, I can't -

It isn't that fucking easy. 

Luna waltzes across the wooden bridge, and Harry follows close after, thoughts murky.

 

-  
  


Twilight finds them in the green dim of the boathouse, Malfoy’s fingers pressed against Harry’s pulse and Harry’s tongue roaming through Malfoy’s mouth, licking the crevices between his teeth.

Malfoy had been released from the hospital wing just that evening, found Harry in an empty corridor after dinner and wordlessly the pair paced to the boathouse. It seemed as though this was the first time Malfoy had sought out Harry’s company, hand curving into the spill of Harry’s sleeve as they walked.

There was no apology from either of them; Harry did not ask how Malfoy’s wounds healed and in turn, Malfoy did not apologize for his almost use of the Cruciatus Curse.

Instead, Harry’s robes are pooled just under his knees, prick hard and rubbing insistently against Malfoy. Malfoy’s mouth is warm and slick, and his hands are sweaty against Harry’s ribs.

Harry’s tongue is a prodding question against Malfoy’s teeth; he wants to ask what Malfoy is doing in the Room of Requirement, about the sickly pale color of his skin.

He wants to let Malfoy know that he can help, but Malfoy’s fingers twist around his nipples as if he’s anticipating the question, and Malfoy pulls his mouth off of Harry’s, drags his lips down the line of Harry’s neck.  
  


-

 

It feels like someone has reached into Harry’s chest and scooped out his insides – there remains now just the empty cavity where his organs used to be –

His muscles are still frozen and Harry watches in disbelief, sees Dumbledore falling over the edge of the Astronomy Tower. Briefly, he thinks of Malfoy rushing down the Astronomy Tower stairs, thinks of Malfoy’s pale skin. He realizes that his muscles have been freed then, rushes down the stairs with blood racing under his skin, pushes the last thoughts of Malfoy out of his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit 2/21/16: This fic has been revised and expanded since it was posted 11/20/15.
> 
> Edit 12/26/17: Updated again.


End file.
